


The Hitch-Hunter's Guide to Apple Country (or Why Abandoning Your Back-Up at a Dairy Queen and Setting Off to Prove Some Macho Point is a TERRIBLE Idea)

by diana_lucifera, stormageddon



Series: Brother's Blood [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Episode: s01e11 Scarecrow, Gen, at least they're not in florida, basements are just bad ideas, gay breakups in apple country
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 19:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diana_lucifera/pseuds/diana_lucifera, https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormageddon/pseuds/stormageddon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things aren't alright after Roosevelt, and Dad's call takes them from "Manfully Ignoring the Problem" to "Screaming at Each Other on the Side of the Road."</p><p>Sam wishes he could say he was surprised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sam lies awake and listens to the sound of Dean breathing at his back.

His head is still pounding, an awful building of pressure that threatens to split his skull at the seams, his throat stings from crying, and he knows that things between him and Dean are going to be just as raw and broken in the light of day. Dean is still here, a warm, solid line at Sam’s back, but Sam knows him, knows that his brother is hurt in more ways than one, and no matter how Dean tries to push it down, it’s going to rise up and swallow them both sooner or later.

And in spite of all that, the truth is that Sam is so, so lucky. If Dean hadn’t been carrying that unloaded pistol, if Sam had hit him a little harder, hesitated a little less…

He doesn’t even want to think about it. Doesn’t want to imagine a reality where Sam has to watch, trapped and screaming inside of his own mind, as he destroys the most important thing in his world.

He’d said a lot of things under Ellicott’s influence that he hadn’t meant – not really, not the way they came out – but there’s one thing he’d said that he knows is true without a doubt: If he had killed Dean, he wouldn’t have had the strength to walk out of there. That would be it. Over. Everything Sam and Dean have done and been through reduced to just another crazy murder-suicide at Roosevelt Asylum, and God, he doesn’t even want to imagine.

Since Jess, Sam has felt like he’s hanging by a single, solitary thread, and some days, it’s like he can actually feel it starting to fray and slip from his grasp as he dangles over this dark, endless pit full of unnamed nightmares just waiting to swallow him whole, and Sam _can’t_.

He can’t do this alone.

He can’t live in a world without Dean in it, came to terms with that a long time ago with an IV needle in one hand and a bowie knife in the other, and the idea of it being _Sam_ who took Dean away? Sam’s finger on the trigger? Sam’s hands covered in his brother’s blood?

_No._

He closes his eyes tight and listens as Dean snorts and shifts in his sleep so he’s breathing right into Sam’s ear, a move that would normally drive Sam crazy but, right now, just fills him with a sense of helpless, dizzying relief.

Dean is alive. He’s alive and he’s right here, and Sam might have damaged their relationship in ways Dean may never really forgive, and his brother still has plenty of time to come to his senses and leave before Sam gets another chance to destroy him like he’s destroyed everything else he’s touched, and maybe Dean will. But even if he does, even if the pain of that thought is so sharp Sam can barely breathe with it, it’s okay, because at least his brother is _alive_.

The sound of Dean’s phone buzzing on the nightstand startles Sam out of his thoughts, and he fumbles for it, flips it open and croaks a low “Hello?”

“Sam? It that you?”

Sam knows that voice, would know it anywhere. He’s thought about what he’d say the next time he heard it, replayed the words a thousand times, but now all he can get out is:

“ _Dad_.”

“Yeah, it’s me,” John says.

He sounds tired, a little choked up in a way Sam has never heard him, and Sam has no idea what it means, just knows that hearing their dad sounding human and vulnerable somehow makes him angrier, like John’s doing it on purpose, making Sam care about him when all Sam wants to feel is hatred. He wants to scream at his father, wants to hang up with a click and send the phone hurtling across the room, but he needs to know:

“You’re after the thing that killed Mom, aren’t you?”

John is silent for a moment.

“Yeah,” he exhales. “It’s a demon, Sam.”

Beside him, Sam feels Dean stirring, eyes opening to squint up at him with blurry curiosity.

“A demon?” Sam asks. “Are you sure?”

“Hey,” Dean rumbles, rolling back and scrubbing a hand over his face. “Who is that?”

“Do you know where it is?” Sam demands, holding up a hand for Dean to wait.

“Yeah, I think I’m finally closing in on it.”

“Where are you?” Sam demands, scrambling for the motel stationary. “We’re leaving right now.”

There’s a long pause.

“Sammy, put your brother on the phone.”

“Why?” Sam demands, eyes narrowing.

“Son—”

“Don’t,” Sam cuts him off. “You’ve had six months to talk to him, and you couldn’t be bothered to pick up the phone. Right now, you’re talkin’ to me.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, and John exhales long and loud into the receiver.

“I called to tell you boys to stop trying to find me, Sam,” he says. “I told you from the beginning not to look for me—”

“No,” Sam hisses, “you drugged me and left it in a goddamn note.”

Dean’s eyes narrow in the dim as he elbows up, snags Sam's forearm to get the phone away from his ear.

“Is that Dad?”

“Dean almost died,” Sam continues, feeling the familiar fire burning in his belly as he jerks his arm away from Dean. “Do you even care?”

Dean says, “Sam, give me the phone,” at the same time John gravels, “We don’t have time for this.”

Sam’s mouth snaps open as he dodges Dean's insistent hands, ready and willing to tell their dad exactly where he can stick his fucking time table, but John presses on.

“Now, I’m giving you an order: Stop following me. This is bigger than you think. They’re everywhere. It’s not even safe for us to be talking right now.”

Sam sets his jaw, fingers clenching tight on the phone, because no, he doesn't just get to decide that.

“We’re not going to—”

Dean snatches the phone out of his hand and presses it to his ear.

“Dad? Are you okay?” Dean asks.

John says something, and Sam watches as Dean’s posture goes rigid, his face blank.

As he goes from Sam's brother to Dad's soldier in blink of an eye.

“Yes, sir,” he says. “Yeah, I have a pen right here.”

He tugs the pen and pad out of Sam’s fingers and scribbles out several sets of names with his mouth set in a tight, dead line.

“Anything else you—? Yeah. Yes, sir. Bye.”

The call goes dead, and Dean stares at it for a long moment.

“What the hell did he tell you?” Sam demands.

Dean launches out of the bed and jerks on yesterday’s jeans, not meeting Sam's eye.

“Come on, we gotta go.”

~

“They’re all couples,” Sam says an hour later, hanging up his phone and making a note by the last name on Dean’s list. “All from different states, all disappeared on the second week of April, same stretch of highway—”

“In Indiana, yeah,” Dean nods without looking away from the road.

Sam huffs, crumpling the road map in his lap up and shoving it to the floorboards.

“So, this is a hunt.”

“Looks like it,” Dean says, expression unreadable.

They’re silent for a long moment before Sam finally huffs out an annoyed breath and says, “Stop the car.”

Dean’s eyes flick over to him, brow furrowed.

“What?”

“Stop. The car,” Sam says again through gritted teach.

“Why?” Dean demands, but he’s already turning the wheel to pull the Impala onto the shoulder of the highway.

“Dad called from a payphone with a Sacramento area code,” Sam explains, thumbing through Dean's call history to display the number.

“Sam—”

“Dean, Dad said he was closing in on this demon. If that’s true, then we need to be there!”

“Dad doesn’t want us there,” Dean protests.

“I don’t care _what_ he wants!"

Dean frowns.

“He gave us an order, Sam.”

“I. Don’t. Care,” Sam says again. “After the crap he’s pulled, you shouldn’t either!”

Dean scowls at him, shoulders set straight, unbending.

“Sam, there are people in Indiana who are going to die if we don’t get there.”

“So call Bobby, have him get someone down here to take care of it,” Sam dismisses.

“And if they don’t make it in time?” Dean demands. “We’re one state away, Sammy! No one’s gonna be closer than us! And even if they are, you don’t know that they’ll be any good or that they’ll take it seriously or—”

“And you don’t know they won’t!” Sam protests, arms flinging wide as the confines of the passenger seat will allow.

“So what?” his brother snaps. “You’re ready to just risk these people’s lives because you’ve got places you’d rather be?”

“By the time we finish the case, Dad could be gone, Dean!" Sam explodes. "Who knows when we’d get another lead on where this demon is. It could be another six months! It could be _never_!”

Dean shakes his head, sympathetic and resigned and Sam knows, _knows_ he's just gonna hate whatever comes out of his brother's mouth next.

“Look, Sam, I know how you feel but—”

“Do you?” Sam demands, glaring up at his from behind his bangs, serious and sharp and not holding back, not a bit, not now.

Dean stares at him open-mouthed, and Sam gives a sad, angry laugh.

"You knew Jess for what, two days? Three?" he says. "You really wanna tell me you know how I feel? You can't. And if you did, there’s no way you’d be able to just walk away from this.”

“Dad said it wasn’t safe,” Dean says after a moment. “He—”

“Who cares what Dad said?!” Sam explodes. “I just— I don’t get you! How can you still trust him after everything he’s done?!”

“It’s called being a good son!” Dean snaps.

“No,” Sam shoots back, “it’s called being a good soldier.”

For a second, Dean looks like he wants to hit him. Instead, he smacks a palm against the gear shift, angles the Impala back onto the highway, and punches the gas.

“Goddammit, Dean,” Sam protests. “Come on. Think about what you’re doing!”

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” Dean tells him. “I’m going to Indiana. You wanna go to California that bad, then you’re walkin’ there.”

“I’m not going to go without you,” Sam says, indignant, “and I am not leaving you to hunt this thing alone!”

Dean’s hands clench into fists on the steering wheel.

“Why not?” he grinds out. "I could handle it."

“Are you kidding me?” Sam exclaims. “Dean, you almost died _yesterday_!”

“No, you almost _killed me_ yesterday,” Dean says viciously, eyes cold and jaw working. “Hell, at this point, I’m startin’ to think maybe I’d be safer hunting without you than with.”

Sam draws back, hurt twisting sharp in his gut.

“What are you saying?” he demands. “You want me to go?!"

Dean doesn't look at him.

“You do what you want, Sam,” he says coldly, eyes not leaving the road. “Always do, right? Don’t give a damn about anybody but yourself.”

Sam can feel his hands trembling like a leaf, heady mixture of rage and pain making him feel sick and dizzy.

“At least I’ve got a mind of my own,” he bites out.

Dean laughs hollowly.

“Right, how could I forget? I'm Dad's little bitch-boy. His freaking butt-puppet. Gonna follow his orders until I get us both killed, right?”

Sam sneers, can feel his face twisting into an echo of the monster Ellicott’s ghost made out of him yesterday as the anger bubbles up, takes over.

"Not exactly proving me wrong, are you?”

Dean yanks the wheel to the right, skimming the Impala over a corner of grass, spewing gravel behind them as he turns onto an exit at the last possible second. Sam slaps a palm against the window to steady himself.

Dean pulls into a gas station just off the overpass, glowing dimly in the early morning fog, empty except for a pair of sleepy looking bikers and an electric blue Volkswagen with a gas pump nozzle clicking away in the tank.

“Get out.”

Sam stares at him.

“What?!”

“Get. Out,” Dean repeats.

And stupidly, Sam does. Swings open the passenger’s door and stands in the chilly parking lot, expecting to see his brother emerge from Impala to give him hell, maybe even take a swing at him.

Instead, what he gets is Dean leaning across the front seat to fling Sam’s cell phone and wallet at his stomach before pulling the passenger door closed with a loud, creaky slam.

Sam watches in shock as Dean peels out of the parking lot with a squeal of tires, stares blankly as the Impala tears up the overpass and back onto the highway towards Indiana.

It takes a minute for Sam to process what just happened, and then he’s dialing Dean’s number with trembling fingers, stalking back and forth in front of the gas pumps as it rings and trying to pretend he can’t feel the stares of the bikers or the college chick who’s emerged from the front seat of her Beetle to shut off the pump. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Sam hears Dean’s voicemail click on, giving him a tinny beep before it tells him to leave a message.

“Dean, what the hell?!” Sam bursts out. “Are you crazy? You can’t just leave me here! Come get me, NOW!”

He hangs up, drags a palm over his face and tries not to think about the possibility that maybe Dean is following through on his threat from last night, that maybe this time Sam’s pushed him too much, too far. That maybe Dean won’t be coming back at all. He draws his hands into fists, not sure if he wants to drive one right into his brother’s stupid face or sit down on the curb and cry.

“Hey, are you okay?” the owner of the blue Volkswagen asks. She’s wearing an Indiana State hoodie and has a half-eaten cream cheese Danish clutched in one petite hand. “I mean, I’ve had some rough breakups, but that was just _harsh_.”

“No, he—” Sam starts, shoving a hand through his hair. “That was my brother.”

The girl winces, pink lips crinkling in a silent " _oooh_."

“Wow, that actually makes it kinda worse.”

Sam can’t say he disagrees.

“Is he coming back?” the girl asks tentatively, taking a half-step closer.

“Yeah,” Sam says instantly, a lot more vehemently than he means to. “Of course he is. He’s just—”

“Just what?” she asks, her eyebrows drawn together under tousled blonde bangs.

Sam glances down at the phone in his hand, doesn’t have an answer to give her.

“Well, can I- maybe- give you a ride somewhere?” the girl asks hesitantly.

“No,” Sam says. “Thanks for offering but. He’s going to come back.”

_He has to come back._

“I just need to wait here,” he continues lamely.

“Yeah?” the girl asks, not looking too convinced. “Well, do you want me to, like, wait with you or something?”

Sam shakes his head.

“You really don’t have to do that. I’ll be fine.”

“O- _kay..._ ” she says slowly, spinning on her heel and walking back toward the car.

She gets as far as the driver’s side door before she pauses, then turns to strides back over to Sam.

“Look, here’s the thing,” she says. “I’m sure you really would be fine, but this is the middle of nowhere, and if I leave you here and then see on the news that you got Deliverance-d or something, I’m going to feel _really_ bad.”

Sam can’t keep himself from letting out a weak chuckle. He shakes his head.

“I can take care of myself, believe me.”

The girl shrugs, gesturing toward the Dairy Queen attached to the gas station.

“Well, I’m super hungry, so I’m just going to go in there,” she says. “You can stand out here or you can come sit with me. Your choice.”

“Hungry, huh?” Sam asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow at the pastry in her hand.

She grins, flash of white teeth, eyes titling fox-like.

“Maybe I got a big appetite.”

Again, Sam has to laugh, ducking his head.

“Fine,” he says. “You win.”

He stretches out a hand.

“I’m Sam, by the way.”

She shakes his hand, still smiling wide.

“Hi, Sam. I’m Meg.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this one, guys. Real life kind of sucker-punched us for a little while there. 
> 
> Fear not, though. We've been hard at work on these little nuggets of pain and torment, as well as the sequel, and things should move on at a pretty regular pace from here on out.
> 
> Barring unforeseen complications such as illness, artlessness, and velociraptors, of course.
> 
> See you next week for Chapter 2!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which "My Friend Flicka" is unjustly maligned.

Meg orders herself a hot fudge sundae, tossing Sam an unimpressed look when he refuses to let her get anything for him, then disappears into the bathroom. Sam settles down into the booth and dials Dean’s number again. It rings and rings, but Dean still doesn’t pick up.

“Hey, it’s me,” Sam says when the voicemail gives him his cue. “Look, I get that you’re pissed at me, and I’m— I didn’t— But Dean, don’t do this. Please. At least tell me where you are or — just— Call me back, okay?”

He flips the phone closed with a sigh.

“So, you and your brother had a pretty bad fight, huh?” Meg asks, sliding into the booth opposite Sam with her sundae and her plastic spoon. “Wanna talk about it?”

Sam makes a noncommittal sound. He gets that she’s trying to help, he does, but right now the last thing he wants to do is rehash this crap.

“How about you?” he asks. “You heading home to Indiana?” 

“The opposite,” Meg says through a mouthful of soft serve. “‘m road tripping.”

“Alone?”

Meg rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, and before you ask, I know how to change a flat, I can spot a carjacker at twenty paces, and yes, I carry pepper spray.”

Sam raises his hands in a gesture of supplication.

“Sorry, no disrespect meant.”

Meg stares him down for a minute, then looks down at her sundae, nudging the peanuts around on the hot fudge with the tip of her spoon.

“No, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to lay my crap on you. Just tired of getting the third degree about it, that’s all.”

“Your parents?” Sam asks.

Meg shakes her head, smiling ruefully.

“Sister, believe it or not. Kid sister, even. Wanna see her going away present?” she props her foot up on the booth and digs a hand into her Uggs. “Check it out.”

She pulls out a Swiss army knife the size of her pinky and thumbs at it doubtfully.

“Pretty sure if I needed to defend myself, I wouldn’t even be able to get this thing open in time,” she says. “Or I’d pull out the bottle opener by mistake.”

Sam grins. 

“Hey, you never know,” he quips. “If somebody starts playing ‘Dueling Banjos,’ I’ll feel better knowing you’re armed.”

“Yeah, with a nail file,” Meg says with a laugh. “Whatever, I mean, I’m glad she cares, it’s just. I can handle myself, you know? Wish she’d have some faith in me.”

She tucks the knife into the pocket of her hoodie and offers a heaping spoonful of ice cream to Sam that he steadfastly refuses. 

“So what about you?” she asks. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No, I’m not,” Sam says. “I’m road tripping, too, actually. Headed to California.”

“You and your brother,” Meg supplies.

Sam nods, very carefully keeping his face blank. She doesn't need to know that California isn't just a place to cross off on the map. That it's Dad and answers, justice and Jess, painting and smiling and burning, burning right up in front of his eyes along with everything he ever wanted, everything he ever hoped his life would be.

“Where are you from originally?” she asks, breaking his train of thought.

“Kansas, but we moved around a lot growing up,” Sam tells her, the old, familiar lie tripping off his tongue, and it's like he’s back at Stanford again, back to school and grades and making up on the fly why he doesn't know how to work a dishwasher or use a hand mixer or stay in the same place for more than two months without feeling an itch between his shoulder blades.

“Yeah?” Meg hums, breaking Sam's train of thought as she idly scoops up another spoonful of sundae. “I always thought it’d be cool to travel around like that. I pretty much spent my whole life in Andover before I moved out here for school. It wasn't bad, just boring, you know?”

Sam can’t really think of anything ‘cool’ about having your entire life uprooted a dozen times a year, about never having friends or a home or a life, about being raised to break and take and kill and never ask why, about being expected to never ask questions or need answers or want anything for himself.

But he can't say any of that, can't let any of it out. 

Not to Dad, a thousand miles and at least a decade of pure, unrestrained hatred between them.  

Not to Dean, an hour into tearing off for god knows where and coming back god knows when, if at all.

Not to Jess, whose blood is on Sam's hands, who would have listened, would have threaded her fingers through his hair and held him close through the parts with the fire, the parts with John being an asshole and Dean being everything and never having a life or a home outside of that.

And who would have shoved him away and called him a liar or a lunatic or worse when he got to the part where he hunts monsters. The part where he was banishing spirits at twelve. Killing ghouls at thirteen, white-faced and panting as Dean tossed and arm around his shoulders and looked like he was about to burst with pride.

But none of that matters now.

Jess's gone. Dad's gone. Dean's gone.

Everyone he's ever had is gone, and he can't say anything, not about any of it.

Sam just answers Meg with a noncommital hum, drops his head and keeps his mind on picking at a half-petrified smear of caramel on the table, the silence just stretching into awkward when Meg pipes up though a mouthful of soft serve and fudge.

“So how long have you guys been traveling together?” 

Sam hesitates for a half-second before answering truthfully, “About six months.”

“Seriously?!” she gapes, brown eyes wide. “Well, no wonder you’re fighting! I mean, I love my sister, but I don’t think we would last six _hours_ on the road together.”

 _It’s not that bad_ , Sam almost says, before he remembers that she saw Dean toss him out of the car and take off for parts unknown just this morning.

“So, do you know where you’re heading?” he asks instead.

“Mmhmm,” Meg nods. “Going to go spend the week at my boyfriend’s place.”

“In Andover?”

“No, he lives in—” she pauses, makes a face, then digs in her pocket. “Sorry, hold on.”

She tugs out her phone and holds it up with a frown.

“Crap, it’s my sister. Sorry, I gotta take this.”

 She stands and walks quickly out of the restaurant, phone pressed to her ear. Sam can hear her give a beleaguered “Hey, Katie. Yes, I’m fine,” before the door swings closed behind her, bell twinkling. 

Sam is considering whether or not he should use this time to put in another call to his own sibling when his phone vibrates against the table, display alerting him to a new text from Dean. He flips open the phone quickly, reads the message with a furrowed brow.

“ _everythings ok. pick you up later. stop calling_ ”

Sam punches his brother’s number in instantly. This time Dean answers within the first two rings.

“What’d I just say, Sam? I mean, literally, _just_ say?”

“Where the hell are you?!” Sam demands, ignoring the jab.

“Right this second?” Dean answers with false-sounding cheer. “Standing in an apple orchard in Burkitsville, Indiana, starin’ down the fugliest-ass scarecrow I’ve ever seen.”

Sam’s jaw drops open.

“You’re working the case?!”

“What’d you think I was doing, skydiving?”

Sam huffs.

“Come pick me up right now,” he demands, already checking to make sure he has his wallet, cell, can be ready to jump into the Impala the second she screeches back across the faded, cracking gas station asphalt.

“No can do, Sammy,” Dean tells him. “Told you, I’ll get you later. Doubt this case’ll take more than a day or two.”

“A day or—” Sam chokes out. “Dean, just come get me and I can help you with the case.”

 “Nah,” Dean dismisses. “Think I need some ‘me' time. Save some civvies, kill some bad guys. S’like therapy for me.”

“Dean, hunting alone isn’t ‘me' time, it's suicide!” Sam exclaims, feeling the anger he’s been nursing start to flare up again. “Listen, you need a break? We’ll finish this hunt together, and then I'll drop you off at a bar. You can get drunk, scam some bikers, find yourself a nice brunette with big tits and a low IQ.”

"Maybe I don't wanna do that," Dean tosses back defensively, "Maybe I just don't want to be around you right now, Sam. Did you think of that?”

“Well, I don't want to have to scrape bits of you off the ground of an apple orchard so SUCK IT THE FUCK UP!” Sam explodes, through, so completely through with Dean and his crap and his stupid, suicidal, macho drive to fucking prove himself.

“I'm hanging up, Sam.”

 “Don't you dare—” Sam growls.

 _Click_.

“He dared, huh?” Meg says, sliding into the booth across from him.

"That offer for a ride still good?" Sam snaps, shoving his phone in his pocket and unfolding himself from the booth as Meg spoons up the last of her sundae. "I gotta stop by the library."

"The library?" she repeats, spoon dropping back into the goopy, melted remains of her ice cream. "What happened to California?"

"Yeah, no," Sam snaps, standing up. "This is more important."

~

The Burkitsville library is a mid-century eyesore with outdated computers and godawful lighting, but what it lacks in information technology and bulbs that don't have a headache pounding behind Sam's eyes almost instantly, it more than makes up for with a robust section on local history. 

It only takes a few flicks through the card catalogue (An honest-to-god card catalogue. Honestly, the fucking towns they get stuck in.) to find the right book of local history, and from there a not-so-quick search on one of the three outdated PC's shoved in a forgotten corner, like the locals were afraid their pristine little slice of nowhere would be infected by the intruding technology. The whole thing would have gone a hell of a lot faster if he had his laptop (Thanks, Dean.) but he's got it. He's got it, and he's got his phone to his ear, ringback reverberating in his ear before he even registers dialing. And that's good - great - because his brother might be a colossal dick, but the sooner he wraps this up the sooner Sam can tell him that to his face, the sooner he can stop shoving down that hitch in his chest. That constant, crushing fear lingering at the back of his mind that this time, just like the last hunt Dean was on solo, this time something, _anything_ will happen and Sam just won't be there, just won't _know_. That this time Dean could... Dean might...

“What?” Dean snaps in his ear suddenly, jerking Sam away from the way the air seems thinner, the room seems smaller, _tighter_ , all of a sudden.

“Have you considered the possibility that this might be ritual pagan sacrifice?” Sam asks, and he's proud, so proud, of not sounding as freaked out as he feels.

Dean snorts.

“Yeah,” he bites out. “Cyclical killings during the harvest season, always one male and one female? It’s not that hard to figure out. I’ve already made an appointment to meet with a professor at the local college to ask about the area’s history, find out what god it might be.”

“Well, cancel it,” Sam tells him. “I already know what it is.”

Dean’s silent for a long moment.

“You what?” he says finally.

“I’ve been at the library all morning. The people from Burkitsville immigrated from Scandinavia, so—”

“Sam,” Dean interrupts. “What part of ‘I’ll work this case,’ did you not get?”

“What, it’s not enough that I’m not around?” Sam demands. “I’m not even allowed to help?” 

“I don’t need your help,” Dean says. “I’ve got it, all right?”

Sam rolls his eyes.

“Okay, so you don’t want to know what it is you’re going up against, then.”

Dean makes a sound that’s half sigh, half groan.

“Fine,” he says tersely. “Hit me, Nancy Drew. What is it?”

Sam’s going to hang up on him, he swears. Let the jerk figure it out on his own if he hates getting Sam’s help that much. Let him just _choke_ on the fact that he might be the big, bad solo hunter, but it was SAM that cracked this one first, Sam that dragged the answers out of _Founding Families of Clinton County_  and _My Friend Flicka_ , Sam that took being dumped on his ass at a fill-up in the middle of nowhere and turned it into saving fucking people and hunting fucking things, just like Dean and dad always wanted.

“I think it’s a Vanir,” he explains instead through gritted teeth. “They’re Norse gods of protection and prosperity. Villages used to practice human sacrifice to keep on their good side and sometimes they’d put up effigies of them in the fields.”

“And let me guess,” Dean continues. “Those effigies looked like scarecrows.”

“Exactly,” says Sam. "And Dean, if it is a Vanir, you need to be careful. Everyone in town is probably in on it.”

“That tracks with what I’m seeing,” Dean agrees reluctantly. “There’s a couple stopped in right now, and I swear, the people here are going all out with the welcome. Fattening ‘em up like a freaking Christmas turkey.”

“The last meal,” Sam says. “Dean, you need to watch that couple.”

“Already on it. You know, I’m not a complete idiot.”

“I never said you were!” Sam exclaims pressing a palm to his forehead. 

Dean makes a noncommittal noise on the other end of the line.

“So, any ideas on how to kill it?” 

“You sure you want me to tell you?” Sam asks bitterly. “I don’t wanna wound your precious ego any more than I already have.”

“Sam—”

“It gets its power from some kind of sacred tree,” Sam says shortly. “Torch the tree…”

“And that should take care of Buffalo Bill's goddamn scarecrow. Got it,” Dean completes his thought. “Can’t be soon enough. This place gives me the friggin’ creeps. I'm tellin' you, Sammy, lock your doors.”

“I don't have a door,” Sam bitches. “In case you forgot, you left me on the side of the freaking highway.”

“Then get a room and lock that door!” Dean orders. “And don't pick up any chicks. This thing goes after couples. I don't wanna see your ass as Scarecrow Number Two.”

Sam glances out of the large plate glass windows to the wrought iron table where Meg has plopped down to enjoy a copy of some trashy celebrity tabloid and the smoothie she picked up from the place across the street.

“Right,” he says slowly, and then thinks again: “Wait, we're worried about _me_ picking up chicks?”

“Sam, come on. I'm working here.”

“Yeah, I've seen you work. That's not exactly a comfort. You planning to be scarecrow chow tonight or in the morning?”

“Come on,” Dean defends, “There's like one chick in this town under fifty, and that is _not_ happening. Real crosses and cardigan type.”

“Uh-huh. Tell that to someone who hasn't heard your 'How To Get a Girl Out of Her Clothes In 10 Minutes or Less' speech.”

“Hah, yeah,” Dean allows. Sam can hear his smirk through the phone and for a second, just one, it's so easy, so normal, like they're not fighting, just teasing and joking and being them, just like everything's like it's supposed to be.

But then the second ends. 

The joke dies and the silence stretches out and it's just Sam and Dean, listening to the other breathe dead air over a staticky cell connection, about as unwilling to give up or give in as they are to hang up the phone and abandon this one, tenuous connection to the place they call home.

"How long are we gonna do this, Dean?" Sam asks after a long moment, and he's not going to beg, he _isn't,_ but:"Just let me meet up with you, man. I'll wait in the car, promise."

"Sam-"

"Please, Dean."

"I'm not havin' this talk again, Sam," Dean shuts him down. "Get a room. Lock your doors. Let me finish this damn case."

"Dean-" Sam protests, but he doesn't get any further before the line goes dead.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean doesn't call _once_.

"Goddammit, Dean," Sam swears, punching redial and slapping the phone to his ear.

"He not picking up again?" Meg asks, fresh gossip mag in her hand.

"Oh no," Sam shakes his head. "He's picking up; he's just being an idiot."

"How?" Meg asks, nudging aside a stack of Sam's research to take the seat across from him.

“He says he needs a ‘break,’” Sam says scornfully, hitting redial again even though he knows Dean's not gonna pick up.

“Well… Maybe he does, Sam,” Meg suggests.

“What?” Sam demands, looking up from his phone sharply.

“Look, I know it’s not my business," Meg shrugs, fiddling with her straw, "but like I said before: six months is a _really_ long time to spend together. Of course you’re gonna knock heads."

"This? What you and your brother are going through? It's normal," she assures him, "and if you give him some space now, I bet you’ll be able to patch things up a lot easier than if you keep pushing it."

At Sam's look, she holds her hands up.

"No offense. I know you mean well," she continues, "but kid sibling knows best? Pushing and pushing until you just gotta get out, get some air? I’ve been there. I know where your brother is coming from.”

She laughs a little, fishes the pinky-sized pocket knife from her pocket and turns it in her hands, folding the little tools in and out absently.

"I mean, I'd do anything for my sister. Love her to death, but after I told her about this whole road trip of mine? After she read me the "You're Gonna Get Skinned By Drifters" Riot Act?" 

She shakes her head, wry smile on her face.

"Well, let's just say if we had to share a front seat, blood would have been shed."

“But you’re—” Sam protests, trying and failing to find a way to say 'You’re not actually in danger. Dean is!' that doesn't make him sound like a complete and total crazy person. “It’s not like that. I’m just—”

“Worried about him?” Meg finishes, a knowing look on her face as she holds the knife up with a little wiggle.

Sam sighs. 

“Yeah,” he says softly. 

“The truth is, he- Something happened to him a little while ago," he explains. "It was a close call, really close, and I was the one who found him, and it— I mean, it really messed me up, Meg. I don’t know what I would have done if he—”

He breaks off when the air gets thin, when his throat closes up and the words just won't come.

“I can’t go through that again," Sam confesses. "I can’t lose him.”

Meg nods slowly, taking it in.

“Well,” she reasons, “I hate to say this, but there’s more than one way to lose somebody.”

Sam stares at her.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you keep riding him like this?” Meg says, eyes soft. “Keep hanging on tight when he says he needs space? There may be a time when he kicks you out of the car and _doesn’t_ come back.”

Sam has to hold himself steady to keep from wincing.

“Right now he’s asking for a couple of days,” she continues. “If you don’t give him that, the problem’s just gonna get worse and worse. The tighter you hold on, the more smothered he’s gonna feel. Trust me. I know. So honestly? I think maybe you should take that trip to California.”

“But,” Sam starts, “you don’t understand, Meg. If I’m not there, he could get hurt! He could—!”

“And you could both get hit by a bus tomorrow," Meg points out. “Anything could happen, Sam, and it's terrifying, it is, but worrying about it every second of every day? Letting it control your life? You can’t live like that. You’re gonna drive yourself _and_ your brother crazy.”

Sam bites his lip, and Meg reaches out, touching his hand gently.

“Sam, I think you need this, too,” she suggests softly. “So, come on. Let’s go to California. Find whatever it is you’ve been looking for, and then you can meet back up with your brother, and you’ll both feel better. You’ll see." 

She gives his hand a comforting squeeze and then draws back again.

"And when I'm telling my sister about all this later," she adds with a grin, "I’ll just leave out the part of the story where I picked up a seven foot tall drifter on a whim.” 

Sam laughs, just a little, lets the possibilities run through his head, spinning and spreading and multiplying like fractals.

It's tempting. It's so tempting. It's Dad and the Demon. Solving this case. Vengeance for mom and Jess and everything they've ever lost, everything the fire's taken from them, all in one.

It's living, just for a little, the lie he's been telling for so long. 

Roadtripping his way across the country. Taking his time. Dealing.

It's exactly what Sam wanted and exactly what Dean wants and exactly what Dad would never see coming.

And Sam doesn't even have to pretend to not know why the 'yes' sticks in his throat, why he just can't make himself get in the car and go.

Dean.

It always comes back to Dean.

 _He_ always comes back to Dean.

If Dean would just let him.

"Meg-" he starts, refusal on the tip of his tongue, but she doesn't let him get any further.

"Give it some time," Meg interrupts gently. "Think about it."

She stands, tucking her thumbs into the pockets of her jeans. 

"And maybe let me buy you dinner to make up for sticking my nose in your life like this," she grins. "After all, it's been a whole fifteen minutes since that smoothie, and I'm starved."

"No kidding?" Sam can't help but chuckle, reminded of a hundred diners on a thousand stretches of asphalt, stop offs they made because Dean just _had_ to stuff his face with this cheesy fry or that chili burger.

"Yeah," Meg nods. "Come on. I think I saw a Korean place a little ways back."

~

It's about an hour back, actually, but halfway there, Sam's stomach growls in the way that reminds him how breakfast was abandoned in favor of fighting with Dean, and lunch was postponed for after research and how - okay - maybe he hasn't eaten anything today, but in his defense, he's been busy.

Not everyone can net the cushy detail of staking out sacrificial victims in a _diner_ of all places, which, trust Dean to find a magical soul-searching solo hunt that involves him just sitting around, stuffing his face full of pie and creeping on people.

Because it's not like he does that with Sam _every single day_.

_God._

"So, what do you think?" Meg asks once they're inside. "Bibimbap or kimchi jjigae?"

"What?" Sam blinks, jerking back to the present and grabbing up his menu to try and look a little less like he wasn't listening to a word she said. "Umm, I-They both look good, I guess?"

"Right," Meg nods with a knowing smirk, "because you're totally invested in this and paying attention."

"Sorry," Sam ducks his head. "It's just-"

"Your brother," Meg finishes wryly. "No, I get it. You've got a lot on your mind right now. You thinking about calling him again?"

She asks like she already knows the answer.

"Maybe," Sam mumbles, not meeting her eye.

"He'll check in when he's ready," Meg assures, going back to menus and entrees and debates over how much gochujjang a restaurant is legally allowed to add to a dish before it stops being seasoning and starts being assault, and that 's fine. That's great for her, but Dean was on his way to face off against a minor deity a little over two hours ago, and he still hasn't checked in, so excuse Sam for not really giving a shit about food or her opinion on food or really anything outside the phone in his pocket which _will not ring,_ no matter how hard he wills it to give him a call, a text message, a fucking smoke signal, _anything_ to tell him that Dean is alive, Dean is okay, Dean is not lying in a ditch somewhere, a scarecrow-fist shaped hole in his chest and the life slowly bleeding out of him again.

He tells himself that it's okay.

Tells himself that he's being paranoid. Irrational. That Dean doesn't want Sam bugging him and Meg is right about giving him space and that his brother's pulled off about a hundred solo hunts against things a hell of a lot scarier than freaking _apple gods_ , and that if things were bad, if Dean actually did need his help, he'd call.

He would.

He totally wouldn't risk his life to prove a point that doesn't even need proving.

… _fuck_.

Somehow, Sam makes it through dinner.

He's distant and distracted and completely deaf to whatever it is that Meg is chattering on about across the table as a hundred thousand visions - visions but not _visions -_  because that's pretty much the only awful thing that could happen today but hasn't, of what could be happening to Dean right now tear through his head. They pound back and forth from Dean getting gored by apple deities to Dean finishing the case without even breaking a sweat and blowing town without him, abandoning Sam to Meg and California, and never, ever seeing Dean again, because Dean doesn't want him. Not anymore.

He doesn't want Sam, and he doesn't need him -  _never_ needed him - and that was fine. Why would Dean need Sam? Why would _anyone_ need Sam? Especially someone like Dean. Dean is a better son, a better hunter, a better human being than Sam could ever be, and Sam knows that, has known that all along. And Sam was fine with it, because as long as Dean wanted him, none of that mattered.

But Dean doesn't want him anymore.

He doesn't want him, and it's all Sam's fault. It's Sam's fault for getting on his case this morning and fucking up at Roosevelt and fucking off to Stanford when he knew, he _knew_ that it would mean leaving Dean in this alone, but he did at anyway, told himself it would be okay and it would work out fine, and look where that got all of them.

Dad on the run. Dean half-dead. Jess-

God, she would smack him for all of this, would roll her eyes and laugh at him and tell him to stop freaking out and just _call his brother_. He can picture her now, all gold curls and bright smile, always laughing and always paint-smeared. She was always exactly what he needed exactly when he needed it, and if _this_ is what he needs now, then goddammit Dean can fucking deal.

If he's allowed to have Soul-Searching Solo Hunt Fun Time, Sam's allowed to worry about him, dammit.

He excuses himself while Meg's pouring over the dessert menu, trying to decide between berry and green tea bingsu, and she's either really into shaved ice desserts or he totally doesn't sound like he's sneaking off to call Dean in the bathroom, because she doesn't raise an eyebrow or make a comment about him being an annoying little brother who's stifling Dean's fucking independent spirit just by _existing_ near him, which thank god for that.

There's only so much a guy can take, after all.

Dean, stifled independent spirit or no, picks up on the third ring.

“Put your head between your knees and breathe,” he answers boredly.

“Fuck you!” Sam snaps, looking incredulously at the phone because _seriously?_ He spent twelve fucking hours making himself sick with worry over this asshole, and he just-

"Sam-" Dean tries to backpedal, and Sam is letting him have _none of that_.

"No, really. Fuck. You," he explodes. "I am so sorry that my ANXIETY-INDUCED PANIC ATTACKS are a fucking inconvenience to you. I'll try not to let my girlfriend's FIERY MURDER and your ALMOST DYING get to me so much."

"Sam-!"

"I mean, it's not like I almost lost you, and then turned around to watch my whole life go up in flames or anything!" Sam rants. "Why worry about that? It's not like I'll ever have to worry about losing you again or anything! It's not like our job is hunting monsters or risking our lives or following our idiot father's orders to our almost certain deaths or anything, so really, laugh it up! Our lives are _hilarious_."

"You done?" Dean asks archly.

"I hate you."

"I'll take that as a yes. Are you okay?"

"Well, I'm not scarecrow chow if that's what you're asking," Sam answers bitterly.

"It is," Dean says. "You call for a reason, Sammy?"

"Yeah," Sam answers tightly. "How's the goddamn case?"

"Fuckin' peachy," Dean tosses back. "You get a damn room yet?"

Sam hums noncommittally. 

"Not exactly."

"Well, why the hell not?" Dean demands. "These hicks just got gypped out of a sacrifice, Sammy. They're gonna need a new one. Now tell me, you gunnin' to get snatched and grabbed by hill people to get back at me or somethin'?"

"Oh yeah, because if I get kidnapped by crazy townsfolk, it's gotta be because I'm making a passive aggressive dig at you!" Sam scoffs incredulously. "It's not like there's a town wide sacrificial conspiracy or anything! That would be _crazy_!"

"Sammy, just get a goddamn room," Dean sighs, and Sam can just _see_ him, phone held to his ear with one hand, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose with the other 'Sammy Quit Being So Goddamn Stubborn Already' face firmly applied as he appeals for aid from on high to deal with his pain-in-the-ass little brother.

"I can't," Sam grumbles. "I'm having trouble shaking my ride."

"You hitched? With a townie?" Dean's voice picks up, takes on the protective, big-brother backbone Sam's heard aimed at bullies and baddies alike in his defense since birth. "Get out, Sam. Kick his ass, steal his car, and get out. I'm not playing around here."

"It's okay, Dean," Sam shakes his head, trying not to let the fierce rush of pleasure hearing Dean so worried about him brings come through in his voice. "She's just passing through on her way to California."

"Perfect," Dean enthuses. "You can hit the road with her, get a head-start on the hunt for Dad. I'll wrap up here and catch up with you. Everybody's happy, and hey, no one gets Joe Versus the Volcano'ed by angry villagers. It's win-win."

"I'm not doing that, Dean."

"Why not?" Dean demands, and Sam's not imagining the edge in his voice. "California? Looking for Dad? That's your thing, right?"

"Yeah, but I'm not just gonna leave you here-"

“Why? You think I can't handle it? Think I'm not up to ducking these people long enough to burn down a fucking tree? I'm fine, Sam. Hit the road already. I know you know how.

“Okay, do you want me to go to California or not?" Sam demands. "Because we both know that, if I did, it'd be 'There goes Sammy, running out on his family again.' If I follow you on the hunt, it means I don't trust you, but if I head off on my own, I'm abandoning you. What the hell am I supposed to do here? I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't, Dean!”

There's silence on the other end of the line for a long time.

"Just promise me you'll head outta town," Dean gravels. "Can't hunt this thing if I'm worried about facing down that ugly-ass scarecrow and seeing your fucking machete scar on its arm, okay?"

"Okay," Sam promises faintly, taken aback. "I'll get a room outside of town. Promise."

"And ditch that chick you're with," Dean adds. "Pretty sure it's just Burkitsville, but no way you're getting snatched because one of these hicks has a cousin or somethin' outside the city limits."

"Yeah," Sam nods, shooting a look back into the dining room at Meg, filing her nails with her little pocket knife as she waits for dessert. "Yeah, all right. Just… stay in touch, okay?"

"You got it," Dean agrees, voice still too heavy, too serious. "Take care, Sammy."

"Yeah, you too," Sam nods around a thick swallow.

He tries to bite back the words, he does, but he just _can't_ , can't stop them from tumbling out in a hot, awkward rush.

"Hey, Dean?" he fumbles, grip too tight on the phone. "You're still- you're still coming back, right? After the case? You're still- still gonna come and get me, aren't you?"

He tries to keep his voice casual, tries to keep the fact that Dean calling - Dean keeping in touch, Dean letting him know he's okay, that he's not gone for good - is all that's keeping the ground under his feet and the world turning. Because Sam is fine on his own, and he trusts Dean to hunt alone, he really does, but only as long as he knows without a shadow of doubt that his brother is alive and coming back to him. 

Which, in retrospect, really means that he's not okay at all, but no one but Sam needs to know that.

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean murmurs from the other end of the line. "'Course I am."

And just like that, the air rushes back into Sam's lungs as the awful aching, gnawing pit in his stomach dissolves and the world starts turning again.

"I mean, you changed your laptop password," Dean jokes, and Sam hates that he won't just talk to him and loves that he's giving him the out, letting this be the one thing that keeps them from having a girly share and care over the phone while Sam's in the men's room of a hole-in-the-wall Korean joint off Highway 31. "How'm I gonna get any mileage outta my Busty Asian Beauties Platinum Membership if your little geek toy's lockin' me out?"

"It's 'deanstopusingmylaptoptojackoffitsweird,'" Sam tosses back, rolling his eyes with a wry smile. "No caps."

 "Awesome," Dean says and Sam can hear his grin through the phone. "I'm gonna tail our not-sacrificed civvies to the state line, go set this Magic Tree on fire, then use your laptop to jack off."

"You're disgusting."

"Hey, you think I'm disgusting," Dean teases. "Wait 'till you see your keyboard. I'm not cleanin' up a damn thing."

"Dean!"

"Call ya later, Sammy," Dean hangs up with a laugh, leaving Sam glaring at the phone and feeling lighter than he's felt in hours.

"So, we Cali bound?" Meg chirps when he strides back into the dining room, spoon suspended over a chilly soup of berries and shaved ice.

"Actually I'm gonna stick around," Sam shrugs, shelling out enough to cover his half of the bill and shrugging into his jacket. "You know, get a room. Chill while Dean works his shit out."

"You lookin' for a roomie?" she asks, just a little hesitant, a little shy.

It sits awkwardly on her, this girl who has been nothing but confident, nothing but self-possessed, in the short time that Sam's known her. "Not to, like, be your shadow or anything, but it is gettin' kinda late, and we are kind of in No-One-Can-Hear-You-Scream-sville. We can make popcorn, play Truth or Dare?"

"Nah," Sam shakes his head, "I'm a pretty awful roommate."

"I bet you use all the towels," Meg nods, gesturing with her spoon. "Steal those little conditioners they give you."

"It's not my fault they never give you enough," Sam grins.

"Guess we'll just have to knock over the maid service cart on our way in," Meg jokes with a smirk, standing up and dropping some bills on the table. "I get to be the diversion."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam sets fire to the fucking rain.

Sam tries to steer her to the hotel they passed on the way out of Burkittsville, but he just can't find a reason to turn around that doesn't start and end with 'I'm afraid my brother's gonna need backup to fight a Norse god and I'm not gonna be able to get there in time.' There's less chance, too, of them getting snatched up as replacement sacrifices the further they are from the town proper, so it makes sense, in an awful, stomach-sinking that-much-further-from-Dean way.

He digs his heels in, though, when the clerk asks if they need a king or two queens.

"Separate rooms," he coughs, feeling the flush heat his cheeks as he hurriedly shoves his latest scammed credit card across the desk at the clerk, hoping to god that in the wake of the all-encompassing awkward of the King-or-Two-Queens Question, Meg doesn't ask why he's signing for plastic that's sporting the name of a thirty-seven year old Armenian businessman. "Please."

"Sam," Meg interrupts with a look Sam's too busy averting his eyes and willing the red out of his cheeks to decipher.

At least it sounds embarrassed, squabbling-over-the-check grateful, not why-are-you-committing-credit-fraud shocked.

"It's the least I can do," he dismisses, snagging their keys hurriedly and striding out of the office before anything else awkward or humiliating happens, Meg darting along at his heels, "for you taking time off your trip to play family counselor and everything."

"Don't worry about it," Meg shrugs, taking her key from him as they reach their rooms. "No offense, but it's kind of nice, being wrapped up in someone else's family drama for a change."

"No kidding," Sam laughs lightly, heat chased from his cheeks by the crisp night air.

"Better than cable," Meg grins. "At least let me bring you breakfast before check-out tomorrow. A little ‘Thanks for Putting Me Up for the Night' treat."

"Deal," Sam nods, giving Meg an absent goodbye as he tallies in his head how long it's been since Dean's call, how long it should take to find the tree, kill the Vanir, cover up everything, get clear, and check in, and should he be worried yet? It feels like he should be worried.

Then again, he's always worried these days.

He throws himself into the rickety laminate desk chair, trying not to roll his eyes at the anonymous beige of the walls, the furniture, the carpets, the instantly forgettable nothing all around him.

He'll say one thing about Dean's weird-ass taste in motels: at least they're distinct. 

Distinct, for all that it may mean cowboy hats and cuckoo clocks, is better than beige any day.

Of course, it's not like Meg, bouncing experimentally on her bed and channel-surfing if the sounds filtering through the paper-thin walls are anything to judge by, would have stayed in enough crappy motels to build that preference, would know that living out of crappy holes-in-the-wall is a little more bearable if they don't blend into an endless march of off-white walls and not-quite-taupe carpets.

And if your neighbors don't insist on watching cut-down showings of teen movies on basic cable.

_Bring it On_ , Meg?  _Really?!_

Sam clicks on CSPAN to drown out the thumping bass and cheesy dialogue, tearing off a few sheets of motel stationary to sketch out a timeline of Dean's hunt for the Vanir. Considering the population, the average closing time of the businesses, and the number places there could conceivably be to hide a tree in a town sustained by apple orchards, Dean's got his work cut out for him.

There are a hell of a lot of places to look and even more townies idle between the hours of seven p.m. and ten a.m., and if the ritual cycle is as precise as the evidence suggests, every single one of them should be getting pretty anxious right about now.

But that doesn't mean anything.

So a few small town yahoos are a little worried about getting their sacrifice on time. That doesn't meant that Sam should worry. After all, Dean is a world-class bad ass who's been running circles around their equivalent of idiot NPCs for as long as Sam can remember.

He can handle a few Vanir-worshipping hicks.

He can.

But then, literally the whole town's in on it this time...

That means everyone,  _everyone_  around Dean is in on it, and does Dean even realize that? Does he even get how not-safe he is there? How he needs someone watching his back now more than ever?

And yeah, maybe that's not fair to Dean, maybe it's just Sam fucking freaking out over nothing here, but this is everyone in the whole damn town. What if they gang up on him? Is Dean gonna blast through every one of them to get out? Even if he tried, even if he was okay with that, he'd run out of bullets eventually. Someone would get a lucky shot in.

All it takes is one.

And then where would Sam be? Where would he be when he drives by that stretch of blacktop the disappearances led them to and-

And that's it.

The blacktop. That stretch of highway.

He and Dean, they're both so incredibly stupid, because it doesn't matter how many goddamn orchards and how many goddamn trees are in Burkittsville when there's only one that matters, only one orchard with one cursed scarecrow god. And where do you stick your kill-happy holy effigy?

Near the magic fucking tree it's getting its juice from.

Sam's slamming out of his room and down the motel breezeway before he consciously registers getting up, storming into the office and flinging himself down in front of the single, ancient computer at the motel's so-called "Business Center", if a wheezing, outdated PC and a single, out-of-service printer even counts. He calls up the names Dad gave Dean this morning from memory, confirms that they all disappeared at the same stretch of highway bordering the same orchard. It's the only orchard in town that dates back to the founding of Burkittsville and, according to their website, was started by immigrants and prides itself on their Åkerös - all cultivated from the same stock tree, brought over from Sweden by the town's founding families over two hundred and fifty years ago.

This is the orchard. This is where the tree is and where the Vanir is and where Dean is and Sam knows now, he  _knows_ , so what's he supposed to do?

Is he supposed to let Dean do this alone? Supposed to let him prove whatever it is he needs to prove by fighting this thing solo?

Or is he supposed to go with his gut here?

Supposed to burn rubber and haul ass back to that fucked-up little town, set their sacred fucking tree on fire, and read Dean the "Don't You Ever Ditch Me Like That Again" Riot Act.

And yeah, Sam’d like that. He'd feel a hell of a lot better doing something, anything, that'll get him that much closer to knowing Dean's okay, to having this whole Solo Hunting Nightmare over and done with and just another one of those things that the Never Mention or Fucking Allude to Again.

Like that case with the bugs. Or the Racist Truck.

But if Dean is okay? If he's got this case under control and everything's fine and Sam's just flipping out over nothing here, then Sam's gonna show up in Burkittsville and Dean is gonna be pissed, _beyond_  pissed, and this mess is gonna go from Sam-Doesn't-Give-Me-Space to Sam-Doesn't-Trust-Me-To-Burn-Down-One-Fucking-Tree to Sam-Thinks-I'm-An-Idiot in the blink of an eye, and then they're not going to be back at square one; they're going be fifteen squares south of square one, screaming their lungs out over the burning corpse of a minor Norse deity, and Sam's not sure there's any coming back from that.

Not with the way things have been lately.

He'll wait, he decides, slamming the door to his room shut behind him and flinging himself down on the bed, scrubbing a hand across his eyes.

He'll do what Dean wants and wait for him to check in, and if he doesn't then Sam can ride out hell for leather to that crappy apple town and set it on fucking fire, but until then, if Dean says wait, so he'll fucking wait.

It'll kill him, watching the clock, the minutes burning up and flickering away and stacking one on top of another, each awful, damnable second screaming in his head, the 'what-if's stacking up and closing in and weighing him down, stone by stone, tick by tick.

_Tick_. Dean should have called by now.

_Tick_. Is he okay?

_Tick_. Why the hell hasn't he called?

_Tick_. He could be hurt.

_Tick_. He could be dying.

_Tick_. Just like Louisiana.

_Tick._ Dean, gone forever.

_Tick_. Dean, dying alone.

_Tick._ Dean's doing all this-

_Tick. -_ because you screwed up, Sam.

_Tick._ You'll get him killed, Sam.

_Tick._ Just like Mom.

_Tick._ Just like Jess.

_Tick_ -

The shrill clanging of the motel phone breaks his train of thought, and Sam's first, insane, irrational thought is ' _Dean_ ' which is wrong and impossible because Dean has no idea that he's staying here, much less which room he's in. But apparently that means nothing, nothing at all, because it's still Dean's name on his lips when Sam picks up the phone, his brother's voice he expects to hear when he rasps out some hoarse answer to whoever's on the other end of the line.

"Can't sleep?" Meg's chipper voice chirps in his ear.

Sam thinks, bizarrely, of Jess turning to him the night before a big exam. She’d been as soft and pliant with sleep as Sam was stiff and straining with every fact and figure that raced through his head, all neurons and electrons, his central nervous system on fire with everything he'd studied, everything they'd covered in class, every possible answer to every possible question on every possible permutation of the test, and was it enough? Would it be enough? Would it _ever_ be enough?

"Sam," she'd whispered, turning to him in the dark, voice thick and fogged with sleep, their bodies tangled close in the soft, sleepy intimacy of shared blankets and twisted covers that married heat and breath, braiding ‘you’ and ‘I’ into ‘our’ and ‘we.’ "Relax. You're gonna be fine. You've got this."

And she'd tugged him closer, her fingers sure and strong for all that they'd never fired a gun or flung a knife as they carded through his hair, dragged him up and out of himself and somewhere deeper, hotter, where the furious, anxious pulse of his thoughts couldn't reach him. Somewhere that the constant, quaking questions of the waking world couldn't catch him, where he burned right through analytical and quantitative and verbal and into a white, hot questionless oblivion. He’d fallen back to earth damp and dizzy, heart pounding and hands clinging and legs shaking with her hair tangled around him, the scent of warm vanilla sugar and soft, girly shampoo washing over him as he drifted, carried away by the smooth, steady thump of her heart against his chest and the sweet, secret curve of her smile against his neck.

The memory centers him. Sears him. Heals and hurts, all at the same time, like forcing a dislocated joint back into place.

"That offer for Truth or Dare's still open," Meg hums on the other end of the line, "if you're lonely over there."

It’s like being doused in cold water. The voice is all wrong, the offer nothing but a sharp slap and an icy rush that brings him back to the present. Back to himself.

"I'm fine," Sam shakes his head, clearing it. "I was- Sorry. Another time."

He makes his excuses, mumbles his goodbyes, and drops the phone back in the cradle before standing up and making for the motel's business center once again, this time snatching up the old-fashioned analog alarm clock from the bedside table and dropping it in a trashcan just outside of the motel office.

He might be going crazy with worry, but hell if he lets that clock drive him insane.

~

A few hours later, Dean still hasn't called.

The first weak flickers of dawn are already licking at the horizon, but Sam's ready. He knows more about the hardware stores of Clinton County than he'd ever need to in order make a supply run and start tearing Burkittsville apart at the seams until it gives him back his fucking brother.

And Sam hopes— No, _they’d_ better hope that Dean is just taking his sweet ass time escorting the not-sacrifices out of town. That his brother's cell died, that his attention wandered, that he's in a dive a state or two over giving some brunette bartender the kiss-off or searching for a greasy hole-in-the-wall to snag breakfast in, completely oblivious to Sam totally losing it over here. Because if Dean isn't safe? If his brother is anything other than—?

No. He's safe. 

He's safe, and Sam's going to find him, or by the time he's done, there won't  _be_  a Burkittsville.

Sam darts back into the motel room for coffee, to scrub a brush over his teeth and splash a quick rush of cold water over his face to jolt himself awake.

He's opening the door, mind already on the nondescript Accord he saw on the other side of the building when he sees Meg, one hand poised to knock and a pair of coffees precariously on a Dunkin' Donuts box in the other.

"Leaving so soon?" she asks, surprise traded quickly for a sharp grin. "I got doughnuts."

"Sorry," Sam dismisses, ducking around her. "I gotta go."

And then it's breezeways and breaking into sedans. He checks absently to make sure Meg didn't follow him, but he can’t really bring himself to care, because all he can think about is the  _Vanir_  and  _Dean_ , and if everything is fine then why didn't his brother  _call him_? Dean wouldn't do this. He wouldn't just  _not call_  to prove a point. The fight, the asylum, Dad, none of it matters now. Not at all. Not until Sam knows that his brother is safe.

Sam hits the hardware store first, slipping in through the listing backdoor like an afterthought. He snags accelerant and a fistful of kitchen knives, and he burns for his Taurus, aches for hunting knives, and the cache in the trunk of the Impala, and  _Dean_ , safe and warm and sound. By the time the Accord is tearing towards Burkittsville, Sam feels nothing, sees nothing, hears nothing but the thought the fact that Dean is okay, has to be okay because if not—

_No_.

Dean is o-fucking-kay.

He is o-fucking-kay, because if not, Sam killed him. Killed him by being a stupid, selfish pain-in-the-ass who shot off his mouth and pissed Dean the fuck off, and hell, Sam would’ve left himself on the side of the highway and taken off alone ages ago if it were fucking possible. But Dean is out there, has to be out there somewhere, or—

Before Sam knows it, before he can let himself go there, go anywhere but " _Dean is okay, Dean is okay, Dean is okay,_ ” he's pulling up to the orchard, and there's the goddamn scarecrow hanging on its fucking cross. It's wearing a battered, leather jacket, and in an instant, Sam’s out of the car. He’s already dragged the ladder over and climbed halfway up there before he realizes that it's too long, too smooth, too worn in places and not worn enough in others to be Dean’s. But that doesn't mean— It could still be—

His breath just won't come as his eyes tear across the messy stitches, across the tanned, battered skin of the thing's face, searching for freckles, for the hint of a messy tan or a cocky grin. He has to find something,  _anything_  that'll get his heart beating, that'll get rid of the sick, sinking feeling that Dean is here, could have never left here, and Sam's hands are shaking as he pulls aside the thing’s goddamn collar. He can't look, doesn't want to see Dean's smooth, silvery bite-scars ripped apart and reapplied as this thing's fucking mask.

(Sam swears he can taste them, is hurled back to half a hundred hazy mornings, waking up to find Dean’s fingers in his hair, the half-moon arcs of scars beneath his lips.)

But the Scarecrow's neck is made of clear, dried, stolen skin and ragged stitches overlaying rotting straw and crumbling cotton, and when Sam leans over and twitches the jacket sleeves away from the thing's filthy, fraying gloves, he finds that the skin on its wrists is wrecked, ruined, but not his brother’s. The valleys and rips and ridges are sharp and distinct and definitely, definitely not Dean's. These are not Dean's scars, not Dean's wrists. He's not here, this isn't him, it isn’t too late, and Sam? 

Sam can breathe again.

He's feels light and free with relief, a thousand miles from his body as he snatches the scythe from the scarecrow’s hand and douses the damn thing in kerosene. He lights a match and takes off for the center of the orchard as the scarecrow catches and burns, sending the acrid scent of singed cotton and sizzling skin across the orchard.

God, he'd burn it all down if he could. Just coat the whole damn field in kerosene and light it up and never look back, because they took Dean from him. They did something to him; they must have him somewhere, and wherever Dean is, it's not with Sam. He's not with Sam so everything's wrong. Someone, somewhere has to pay for that.

But burning down this goddamn orchard won't get him Dean. It won't pay that debt or right that wrong, and no matter how much he wants to just set every tree in this place ablaze, he won’t. Not this time.

Not yet.

He caps the kerosene with an ugly twist, sets out to find the fucking magic tree with a hard set to his shoulders and steel in his spine.

Maybe it's how the orchard is laid out, maybe it's what he knows about pagan ritual or some scrap of research or a hunch or just blind luck, but he stalks through the field without a doubt in his mind as to where he's going. He follows a path between the trees that’s too wide to be accidental straight to a gnarled, ancient apple tree.

He doesn't need to see the bubbling, scrawled runes on the thing's trunk to confirm that this is the one. He already knows that this is it. This is the goddamn tree at the center of all of this, and in seconds, with a gurgle of kerosene, with a flick of his fingers and the snick of a match, there’s a quick burst of sting and sulfur, and it’s going up in flames.

Sam stalks away with the heat of unravelling magic and burning apple-wood at his back, hot and crisp in the fall air, and hell if Sam gives a damn about any of it. There's a farmhouse on the edge of the orchard, and if Sam were some lunatic pagan villager, he'd sure as hell have someone watching over his goddamn sacred scarecrow. Even if whoever lives there doesn't know everything, they’ll know something.

And they don't know this yet, but they're fucking telling Sam.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it all comes tumbling down.

He stalks across the lawn, bright and green despite the fall chill, tears up the porch steps and he doesn't knock, doesn't bother with pretext or patience or picking the lock, just rears back and kicks the goddamn thing in, because this whole damn town is in on it, this whole damn town, working together to keep Dean from him, working together to kill and take and burn down every good damn thing they can get their hands on. The scythe is still in Sam's hand, gripped tight and at the ready before he consciously registers the older woman stumbling into the room, wicked curve of the blade against her throat before he can even process the shocked, terrified look on her face, pressing, digging, and suddenly everything a little hotter, a little wetter, her whimpers a little higher, a little more frantic.

"Where is he?" Sam snarls in her ear, still dragging her up, forcing the pudgy woman to balance precariously on her toes to keep the razor-sharp curve of the blade from digging in further, sharper.

The world is red and unsteady, hot and heady and worse, so much worse, every second he doesn't get an answer, and Dean could still be gone, could still be lying cold somewhere, lost and gone forever. She could know, could have done it, could have taken him-

"Where?" Sam demands, giving a little jab.

There's a mirror over the fireplace, flecked with age and heirloom heavy. Her wide, terrified eyes dart around the room, catch his, search for something and find nothing, nothing but hatred, nothing but determination that whatever it is - whatever she knows, whatever she did that ended with Dean ripped away from him - she pays for. Sam can see the horror rising as the color drains from her face, as her eyes trace over the blade at her throat with recognition, as she breathes in the acrid scent of smoke and burning applewood. He can see her world crumble away. It only makes him dig the blade in sharper, because she has no idea, _no idea_ , and there's a second, just one, where he sees the curl of his own lip in the mirror, the hard, unforgiving line of his jaw, and hates the monster that love has made him.

And then he hears the echo of Dean's voice beneath the floorboards, and suddenly nothing else matters.

In a heartbeat, Old Lady McApple-Cult is tied up and out of the way, swearing raggedly under a gag made of her own fussy lace curtain ties. She's nothing, nothing at all, as Sam throws aside the heavy basement door. He tears down the steps, Dean's freeform jets of profanity like a fucking beacon as Sam rockets around a listing bank of shelves to see his brother hammering at the flimsy, weather-beaten wood planks of the storm doors. He might say something, he might call his brother's name or add to the swearing or say nothing at all before their bodies collide like comets, and nothing else matters.

"Jesus Christ, Sammy. Give a guy some warning," Dean wheezes, but he's got a fist in Sam's jacket and his hand shoved messily into his hair. They're both holding on so tight that the leather of Dean's jacket is creaking and Sam's ribs are twinging just a little in protest, and none of it matters, none of it at all, because Dean is here and he's not lost or bleeding or scarecrow chow or shouting at Sam about how he's worthless and annoying and should just go somewhere not here and stay there, and that's really all Sam cares about right now.

Even though there's a blonde girl in a cardigan standing just over Dean's shoulder looking really awkward, and okay, yeah there are probably a few things Sam and Dean need to sort out before they do the whole 'touching reunion' thing.

"There anyone in the house besides the old lady?" Sam asks, forcing himself to let go of Dean's jacket, reluctantly stepping back from hands and arms and fingers in his hair and feeling like he's not missing something crucial, something critical, like a hand or an arm or a fucking lung, for the first time in days.

"Last I saw it was just the old broad upstairs and her geezer of a husband," Dean grumbles as Sam fights the urge to snatch him back, to make sure, to just double check that he's really here, that he's really okay, that this whole goddamn nightmare is really the fuck over. "What's that smell?"

"I kinda… set the orchard on fire," Sam shrugs, avoiding Dean's eye as he feels the blush creep up his neck

"Aww, Sammy," Dean teases, ruffling his hair as they make for the stairs, "you do the sweetest things."

"Shut up," Sam mutters, flushing in full force now as he digs a knife from his jacket. "You want the scythe or the fillet knife?"

"Fillet me," Dean grins, putting just enough extra in the second syllable to justify the suggestive quirk to his eyebrows.

And how his brother can be both the most ridiculous and important person on the planet Sam doesn't know. He doesn't care. He's just so damn glad to have him back that getting out of the basement, ducking townies long enough to make for the Impala, and packing Crosses-and-Cardigans off onto the next bus for Boston fades into a long, amazing blur of  _Dean_.

Dean's here and safe, and it's so easy, so easy to ignore the pinch at Dean's mouth, the air thick with everything they're not saying as the bus pulls away, leaving them leaning against the fender of the Impala in heavy, hurt silence.

But it can't last forever, because Dean's still pissed at Sam, and Sam's still pissed at Dean, and there's no hunt to shove it aside for, no more reason to lock it in.

There's no burying this. Not any more.

"That doesn’t count," his brother announces, still staring down the highway as the bus fades into the distance. 

"What?" Sam sputters, because even though he expected something, he didn't- He- What is Dean even-?!

"The saving," his brother bites out, annoyed set to his jaw now. "Didn’t ask for it, didn’t count."

"Oh my god, Dean. What the hell?!" Sam bursts out incredulously, because really? _Really?!_

"I’m just saying that I get a do-over of, like, everything," Dean shrugs, still and set and solidly, infuriatingly stubborn no matter how light and fake-dismissive his voice is.

"You’re gonna abandon me at another gas station?!" Sam demands, horrified and terrified and on the border of hysteria, just like that.

Losing Dean was bad, but being about to lose Dean at every moment? Being on the edge of this _all the time?!_

"We are not doing this again, EVER!" he practically shouts, wheeling on his brother. "You are not going the BATHROOM alone for the next YEAR! Every time I turn around, Dean, you're get kidnapped by fucking townsfolk and stuffed in basements!"

"Okay, not even true!" Dean objects with a glare.

"I can’t- Dean, I am serious," Sam continues. "I can’t handle this again. I can’t. So whatever macho thing you need to prove to yourself, fucking prove it now, because this is NEVER happening again!"

"So what, you’re never gonna let me hunt alone again?" his brother demands, ugly challenge in the timber of his voice, the stone set of his jaw.

"Why do you need to?" Sam counters, rising to the challenge. "I’m here. Why would you need to hunt by yourself?"

"Reasons, Sam," Dean evades. " _Reasons._ "

"Like what, exactly?" Sam presses, not letting him get away with that one, not after all of this.

"Like, I could do it before, and I can’t now!" Dean tosses back.

"That makes no sense, Dean!" Sam exclaims, shoving his hands through his hair.

"I'm a grown ass man!" Dean explodes. "I shouldn't need to have my fragile, broken bird baby brother pull my ass outta the fire every goddamn hunt!"

"Excuse me?!" Sam sputters incredulously.

"You heard me!" Dean sneers, the gloves coming off now. "Dude, you get twitchy every time I take too long going to get  _ice_!"

"Okay, is this about you having to get saved or you having to get saved by ME?" Sam demands hotly.

 "Neither. Both. Some. I don’t know!" Dean shouts back angrily.

"Okay, so lemme figure this out really quickly," Sam holds up a hand with a glare. "You’re not upset that you got kidnapped by fucking hill people-"

"No, I am. That was embarrassing," his brother snipes.

"But you’re more upset that you had to be saved by your  _incompetent little brother with panic attacks_?" Sam pushes, pissed and humiliated, and he knew, he  _knew_  he was a burden, an embarrassment, a pain in the ass to hunt with, but to have Dean come out at  _say it_ -

"I did not say incompetent," Dean interrupts, holding up a finger.

"Clearly not," Sam sneers. "I'm at least more competent than you."

"Oh, what the fuck ever!" Dean rolls his eyes.

"Says the guy who got snatched by villagers," Sam tosses back. "You know, this whole thing wouldn't have even happened if you hadn't been an idiot and left me in the middle of nowhere!"

"I did not leave you in the middle of nowhere," Dean dismisses.

"Dude, it was a Quickie-Mart!" Sam exclaims. "The only thing around for twenty miles was a Piggly Wiggly!"

"And?" his brother prompts, spreading his arms wide.

"That’s pretty much the definition of the middle of nowhere!" Sam cries, throwing his hands up.

"I’m not sure that’s true," Dean denies, and Sam wants to just smack the stupid, snarky little smirk off his damn face.

"You left me my phone, but you didn’t leave me with my laptop or a fucking pair of pants! These are the same clothes from yesterday, Dean!" he complains. "I feel gross!"

"Aww, poor baby," Dean scoffs. "You had supplies."

"No, Dean, my cell phone and a wallet do not count as  _supplies_!" Sam argues, refusing to let Dean pass  _leaving his ass on the side of the highway_  off with a joke and a smart remark just like everything else in their goddamn lives. "I had no idea where you were, no idea where you were going, no fucking clue what was going on, when you’d be back, if you’d be okay-"

"I was fine," Dean insists.

"Really," Sam nails him with his best skeptical look at that one, because it just might be the biggest load of bullshit he's heard in his life, right up there with 'Monsters aren't real' and 'I think the bowl cut's a good look for you, Sammy'. 

"Totally fine," his brother nods, poker face firmly applied.

"You had it together, huh?" Sam presses, nailing Dean with his best 'You Are So Fucking Full of Shit' glare.

"I had it together," Dean confirms, blithely ignoring the fact that Sam found him unarmed and reduced to futily swearing at barn wood. "I had a plan. I was totally fine.  I wasn't even in the basement for that long."

"Really, 'cause I’ve been calling you, and you haven’t been answering. Why was that, Dean?" Sam demands, arching an eyebrow.

"Bad reception. Apple god magic, uh, gumming up the works," Dean gropes. "Whatever, I was completely fine, Sam! I could have handled it!"

"Okay, even if you could have-" Sam shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.

" _Definitely_  could have," Dean interrupts stubbornly.

"But that’s not the point, Dean!" Sam bursts out. "Why do you think you have to? Why- I literally have no idea why we’re even doing this. This is stupid!"

"Oh, I am sorry!" Dean fake apologizes. "I'm so sorry that the things I think are stupid. You know, I forget. 'All of Dean’s plans are stupid. All of Dean’s plans are gonna get us killed! We’re gonna die if we follow Dean’s plans!'"

"You don’t have plans!" Sam throws back. "You have  _Dad’s_  plans!"

"That’s how it works, Sam!" Dean argues. "Dad gives us an order, we follow it!"

"No, not anymore," Sam shakes his head, resolve echoing through every bone in his body.  "This is the third time, Dean. The third time he’s sent us somewhere and one or both of us nearly didn’t make it! Why have you not grasped that following Dad’s orders is a terrible idea?"

"Dude, we’re hunters! It’s gonna be dangerous no matter whose hunt it is!" Dean defends.

"Except Dad’s hunts have a special proclivity for landing  _you_  injured in basements, which is all the more reason you don’t GO OFF ALONE!" Sam shouts.

"No, no! Bad examples!" Dean responds hotly. "I go off alone all the time, and I’ve always been perfectly fine, Sam! I was hunting on my own for FOUR YEARS while you were off at Stanford. Not a damn thing happened to me! I can do this, but not if you keep following me!"

"If I hadn’t followed you, you’d still be locked in that basement, or worse, being skinned a-fucking-live by a goddamn scarecrow!" Sam cries. "If I hadn’t followed you, you’d be DEAD!"

"I’d have figured something out!"

"You shouldn’t have had to!" he roars. "We hunt TOGETHER! We work TOGETHER! You act like you’re the only one who's ever in trouble here! I don’t understand why it’s all okay for you to ride in on your white horse and save my goddamn ass, but it happens to you-"

"When?" Dean demands. "When have I had to save your ass?!"

"Shifter," Sam bites out.

"Okay-"

"Lawrence," he adds flatly.

"Maybe-"

"Mary. The Hook Man. Rockford. PALO ALTO," Sam lists, each word coming out like a punch. "You save my ass all the time, Dean! You don’t see me going on fucking Magical Feelings Field Trips to deal with it! I’m cool with it! We’re partners. That's what partners  _do_."

"You shouldn’t have to save me all the time!" Dean insists stubbornly. "You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t, because I should be fucking- fucking  _competent_  enough to handle the job on my own."

"You don’t have to, though, Dean," Sam presses, pleads, just tries to make his brother  _understand._  "Not that way. And you’re the only one who thinks you should! I just- I really don't even understand."

He breaks off, frustrated, because Dean is just not- not working with him here, refusing to even- to even  _try_.

"Listen, you’re my brother," Sam starts over, tries to go back to the beginning, to work this thing out. "I worry about you. I know you’re not incompetent, okay? But shit happens! It’s a dangerous job! Sometimes, you’re gonna need someone at your back, and that’s okay! I mean-"

He swallows the shame, the embarrassment, the sad, sick knowledge that this next part is completely true.

"I know you would rather it be someone big and strong instead of your panic attacky little brother, but until you find them and team up, you’re stuck with me!"

"I’m not stuck with you," Dean roll his eyes with a scoff. "It's not like that."

"Really?" Sam demands, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "Because you hate working with me enough to try and go off on your own and get killed!"

"It’s not ‘cause I hate working with you, Sam," Dean denies, still stubborn, still angry, but softer. Softer, but no less fierce.

But Sam's not perfect. He's not perfect, and he's not okay with any of this, especially with Dean not wanting him here, with him always trying to ditch out, to leave Sam alone and wondering, always wondering, always goddamn haunted by the 'what if's, the 'maybe's, the 'could be's of where his brother is and what could be happening to him and it's not okay, none of this is okay, and if Dean could just see that-

"So until you find this magical imaginary manly hunter you’re okay being saved by - possibly Dad," Sam presses, voice rising again, and he knows it's mean, knows it's only gonna make this escalate, but Dean's gonna leave him, he's just gonna keep going and trying and it almost killed him this time and he's as good as said there's gonna be a next time and if things go south next time, if Sam's not around, if Dean's alone...

"Yeah, ‘cause I really want Dad finding me in a fucking basement," Dean scoffs. "I really want Dad finding out I got taken out by villagers-"

"Well, I am so glad I'm the lesser of two evils!" Sam cries. "I am so glad that there’s an endgame, that one day you’ll be enough of a badass to abandon me forever in favor of Dad. Woo hoo! We don’t have to deal with Sam’s crazy forever! Eventually we can just dump him for good."

"My god. Now you’re really being ridiculous," Dean sneers with a fed-up glare.

"That’s what you just said!" Sam insists with a accusing finger in Dean's direction.

"That’s not even a little bit what I said!" his brother denies with an angry curl of his lip. "And even if I did want to go back to hunting with Dad, apparently I can’t!"

"What, because you’re not good enough?" Sam spits out sarcastically. "You’re every bit good enough, Dean! Just because you had two bad hunts-"

"Yeah, try telling him that."

"I’m not gonna tell him anything! He’s an asshole!" Sam shouts, flinging his arms wide. "I don’t care what he thinks and neither should you!"

"It’s not that simple!" Dean tosses back angrily.

"It is every bit that simple!" Sam spits. "Dad’s a dick, I hate him, and so should you!"

"Yeah, sorry, I’m not gonna hate someone just ‘cause you want me to," his brother barks, straight and strong and still every bit John Winchester's soldier, even after this, and it kills Sam, burns him from his core that Dean can't just look, can't see, not even after everything. "I’m not gonna stop listening to Dad just ‘cause you think you know better than him."

"Every time you follow one of his dumb-ass orders, you end up mortally wounded, trapped in a basement, or BOTH!" Sam screams at the top of his lungs, done, just fucking  _done_  with his brother's stupid, suicidal obsession with following Dad into an early grave.

"Not EVERY time-" Dean starts, but Sam doesn't let him get that far.

"Oh, oh really? ‘Cause all those other times worked out so great?!" he challenges, riding right past anger to vicious, laser-focused rage. "Let’s go through a list of Dad’s greatest hits: Dad raises us like psychopaths on the road. That ended really well for everyone I think."

"Dude-"

"Dad kicks me out of the family forever for wanting for further my education. That was fun," Sam continues sarcastically, ignoring Dean's interjection.

"Um, you-"

"AND THEN Dad sends you on a solo hunt to Vampire Basement Land, on which you ALMOST DIE. I appreciated that one. That was nice," he lists over Dean acerbically.

" _Dude_."

"Of course, in classic Dad fashion, when things get tough he abandons us both," Sam pushes on, "leaving me no choice but to maim myself to save your life. Something you will not stop giving me crap for TO THIS DAY."

"Sam-"

"He then proceeds to never call or contact us ever again, except to send us on increasingly fucked up hunts that keep ending up with one or both of us ALMOST DYING," Sam finishes, voice rising to an accusing shout. "Starting to see a pattern here, Dean? Starting to wonder if the shit he puts us through might not be exactly in our best interest?!" 

"Hey, that's the job," Dean interrupts, but Sam is not letting him get away with that, not this time.

"If he were anyone else on the planet, ANYONE ELSE," Sam challenges hotly, "you’d have torn him apart ages ago for the shit he’s done to me ALONE. But for what he’s done to you? Jesus Christ, Dean, tell me again why we haven’t killed this man?"

"Well, I know you haven’t killed him ‘cause you haven’t fucking found him yet," Dean flings back at Sam. "I haven’t killed him ‘cause I actually care about him. 'Cause he’s our FATHER! And really, Sammy? We’re killing Dad now? That’s what’s happening?"

"Like he doesn't deserve it!" Sam cries, refusing to back down. "He has done more fucked up shit to us than every monster and spirit we’ve faced COMBINED, Dean! Why you keep seeking his approval completely escapes me!"

He throws his hands up.

"Honestly, at this point? I just- I have no idea. Why are we even fighting each other? I’m not the enemy here, Dean! It’s him! And I’m  _certainly_  not the one who thinks you’re incompetent. This thing? All of this? It’s just you! No one thinks you’re inadequate but you. No one thinks you have to be perfect but you! You’re trying to prove shit to yourself, and you don’t need to prove it, okay?" he presses. "And don’t shake your head like _'Oh, Sam, you have no idea what you’re talking about.'_ ” 

"I don’t sound like that," Dean scoffs.

"It’s what you sound like to me!" Sam fires back with an acerbic smirk.

He sighs, scrubs a hand over his face.

"Listen," he starts, fingers making tired, frustrated circles to try and force the pounding out of his temples. "We’re in this together. Sometimes we’re gonna have to pull one another out of a goddamn basement. For fuck’s sake, Dean! Helping one another out? Having each other’s back? It’s not superiority, its solidarity! It’s me saying you’re my brother and I’d rather you not be DEAD!"

"Fine. Whatever," Dean rolls his eyes and turns with a shrug.

"Don’t ‘fine, whatever’ me-" Sam commands, forcing Dean to face him with a sharp jerk on his jacket sleeve.

"Well, what do you want me to say, Sam?" Dean demands, arms flinging wide. "‘Oh, I’ve seen the light, everything’s fixed now! I’m so glad that you HATE OUR FATHER. Oh, that’s awesome. Great, you’re gonna be killing yourself picking up my slack for the rest of my natural life, yippee!’" 

He yanks his jacket out of Sam's grasp, eyes hard, jaw sharp.

"What? This is just fixed because you said so?" he challenges. "Sam says this is fixed, so it’s fixed? I’m supposed to be completely okay with the fact that I can’t do the job, with you putting your ass on the line to make up for that fact, because you say so? You say stop worrying, so I’m supposed to stop worrying?

"That how it works now, Sammy?" Dean presses, lays into him, vicious and unyielding. "So If I say, 'Sam, stop peeing yourself every time I leave the room,' you’re gonna just drop your pearls and let me off the goddamn leash? That’s gonna fix it? That’s not how this goes and you know it."

"Well, I could always try making you feel like shit about it," Sam snaps back, eyes narrowing into a poisonous glare. "That seems to be working great for me. Hell, now that you’ve called me, what was it?  _An incontinent pearl-clutching broken bird?_  Yeah, I think I’m all the fuck better, Dean!" 

He gives a sharp, sarcastic laugh.

"I don’t know why we didn’t try this before!" he crows. "Let’s just make me feel more like a neurotic fuck-up, that’ll make it all go away!"

He rakes his hand back through his hair.

"Jesus, Dean," he exclaim, at his wit's fucking end. "You think I haven’t tried to fix this? You think I haven’t tried to not think about this shit?! I try! I try all goddamn day, but every time you’re gone it’s like it’s happening over again and I  _know_  it’s ridiculous and I  _know_  it’s annoying, and it’s not because of  _you_. It’s because of  _me_."

He sighs.

"I know you can handle this. I know you can. But some part of me just can’t let go of the one time you couldn’t." 

There's a long, weighted pause.

"It’s not about you," he assures, tired and heavy and done, so done with all of this. The fighting. The worrying. The fear that any second of any minute of every hour of every day something awful is gonna happen. "None of it is about you. This is my crap, and look, I get it. You shouldn’t have to deal with it." 

He looks up at Dean, standing across from him with a shuttered, measuring look on his face and Sam is hoping, fucking imploring him to listen, now, to just goddamn  _listen_.

"If I could turn it off, I would. You gotta understand, Dean. It’s not about anything you’re doing or have done. It’s not about what happened to you-  You gotta know that I think you can handle it."

At Dean's skeptical look, he steps in, moves closer.

"Hey, no," he shakes his head, cuts his brother off before he can say anything. "I know that you can handle it. You’re not perfect. No hunter is. Everyone needs somebody. But it’s not even about that. You’re a badass. We all know it. But there is crap in our world that no one can see coming, Dean, not without someone watching their back."

Sam swallows thickly.

"It happened then," he explains. "It happened just now, and it’s going to keep happening, and I’m paranoid it’s gonna happen at all times. That’s me. That is entirely me. It’s not about you AT ALL. It’s me being FREAKED OUT that meteors are gonna drop outta the sky and crush you on the way to the ice machine, and that’s not a reflection of your fucking hunter abilities, it’s a reflection of me being a paranoid, twitchy, what did you call it, 'pearl-clutching broken bird?'"

"Okay, alright," Dean stops him at the epithet, holding a hand up and pinching the bridge of his nose with a wince. "Sam. I don’t-" 

He breaks off, sighs, scrubs a hand over his face in frustration and starts again.

"Okay. That was crappy," Dean admits with a guilty nod. "That was- seriously crappy. I don’t- You’re not- Dude. I don’t think of you like that, alright?"

"Apparently you do," Sam tosses back, trying and failing to tamp down the indignation, the anger, to keep a hold on this tiny, fragile thread of fucking progress they've made and keep this from dissolving into another round of shouting and accusations.  "And I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I’ve tried to stop, but I can’t! It doesn’t just stop, Dean! It doesn’t! It’s all the time! All. The. Time. Whenever I can’t see you, I’m freaking out about it and I keep trying! I am TRYING, and I’m getting better, but It’s not gonna happen overnight, Dean.

"I’m gonna keep worrying about you for the foreseeable future," he finishes, "but it’s not because you can’t handle the job, it’s because I almost lost you to the job once, and I can’t, I CAN'T, do that I again. I just  _can’t_."

And they're close now, closer then they've been this whole damn time, close enough for Dean to catch Sam's sleeve, to tug his hand away when he goes to shove his hand through his hair again, the wince that means he's thinking Sam's gonna stress himself into male pattern baldness if he's not careful on his face.

"Alright. Look," Dean starts. "Not so good with the caring and sharing thing, Sam."

"Really?  _You_?"

Sam gives a sad, hollow little laugh.

"Okay," he sighs, exhausted by just-  _everything_  as he drops to lean against the side of the Impala. "Whatever. Just… say 'okay' or some shit, and stow the manly feelings crap that you can’t deal with in a box or something." 

"Dude. I don’t blame you for freaking out, okay," Dean gives him, falling back against the cool, jet black steel with Sam. "It’s not- I know it’s not your fault. It’s-"

"Don’t say 'It’s my fault!'" Sam cuts him off with a sharp look. "I can see you saying 'It’s my fault' in your head, and it’s not, Dean! It’s not your fault, and it’s not my fault. It's Dad’s fault. And I accept that you don’t believe that it’s Dad’s fault, but it’s DAD'S FAULT!" 

He raises his hands as Dean opens his mouth to argue.

"And if you don’t like me saying that then, fine, I’ll stop saying it. It won’t make it any less true, but I’ll stop saying it, because you’re my brother. But seeing you blame yourself for crap he put you through, crap you clearly had NO CONTROL OVER-"

"Sam, if I could handle myself-" Dean starts, but there is no way, no way, Sam is letting him do that to himself. Not again. Not without being the one goddamn voice in Dean's life that'll cut him a fucking break, that'll say he doesn't have to be the goddamn perfect hunter at every fucking turn.

"NOPE! No, no, no, no no!" Sam interrupts. "Dude, you were in a parking lot getting pie! No. Not your fault."

Dean opens his mouth, but again, if Sam has to be his brother's goddamn Jiminy Cricket of Self E-fucking-steem, he'll goddamn do it.

"And don’t say Apple People was your fault either, because it was the entire goddamn town, and we have never dealt with that before.  _Don’t_ ," he repeats when he sees the guilt intensify on Dean's face. "I can see you blaming yourself in your head. Don’t do that."

"But Sam-" Dean protests, but Sam just thrusts his hand in Dean's pocket and fishes out the keys to the Impala. 

"No," he shakes his head, shoving Dean off the door handle. "That wasn’t your fault, this wasn’t your fault, Dad is to blame for everything, and we are getting in the car."

Sam opens the door, sliding into the driver's seat.

"I don’t care where we’re going, but we’re calling it an early night because these jeans are getting crusty and I need to shower. PANTS. YESTERDAY. GROSS," he continues. "Which actually is your fault, by the way. That, you can blame yourself for. The fact that I’m nasty and need to shower? You can blame yourself for that. Everything else? Not on you."

"Yeah, okay. That was a dick move," Dean concedes with a wry little smile, looking down at Sam from where he's still leaning against the car.

"What I've been saying all along," Sam nods, snapping his seatbelt in a way he hope communicates just enough bitchy indignation to get his point across without starting another fucking fight.

"But dude, you can’t keep blaming Dad for every-"

"Yes, I can, actually," Sam interrupts. "I’m doing it right now. It feels awesome."

He gestures to the empty bus station parking lot around them.

"Notice how I’m not abandoning you on the side of the road to go blame Dad alone somewhere," he points out. "I think we’ve grown. Get in the car. This is a Greyhound stop, Dean, not Softy McCuddle’s Care and Share."

"Alright," Dean laughs, his head dropping a little as a smile sneaks onto his face against his will. "Let’s just go."

"Finally, some sense," Sam murmurs as he fires up the Impala.

"And yeah, dude you really do reek," Dean adds as he slides into the passenger seat, leaning across to take a whiff of Sam.

"Like you smell like sunshine and daisies," Sam bitches, pulling out of the abandoned parking lot. "What did they keep in that basement, manure?" 

"I think so," Dean winces, sniffing at his jacket. "God, can we just never- Are there states that outlaw basements? Like, somewhere they’re illegal or some shit? Let’s go there. Like,  _now_."

"Hey, even Superman had Kryptonite," Sam offers, pulling out onto the highway and laughing when Dean makes a face.

"Friggen boy scout," he grumbles, stuffing  _Brave New World_  into the tape deck and settling back in the passenger seat and with that, with the road stretching before them and Dean in the seat beside him, a world in a bubble of steel and chrome, all the worry, all the fear, just melts away, leaves Sam feather light and dizzy with relief. Like putting down a ten ton weight he didn't even know he was carrying. Like that first hit of air after nearly drowning.

Like coming home. 

It's like he's finally,  _finally_  home.


End file.
